Counting Each Lifeline
by escapiism
Summary: A chance encounter at a casual dinner party changes their point of views of a lot of things, and while they once spiralled down the vortex in separate lanes, now they fall together.
**a/n:** the lack of mike/mona fics out there is a little disappointing, and so this is my contribution :) i've never written with these two before (okay, maybe a slight lie), so bear with me while i try to wrap my head around their characters. i'm really excited to start this, because the plot bunnies started nibbling at my feet since the s6a finale, but i never got round to writing. by the way, this is set three years into the time jump, so mike would be nineteen, and mona twenty-one. they broke up just before she graduated. _anywayyy_... please enjoy this new multi-chapter!

 **summary:** A chance encounter at a casual dinner party changes their point of views of a lot of things, and while they once spiralled down the vortex in separate lanes, now they fall together. —mike/mona, post s6a, and the uncertainty of love

* * *

 **like thunder and lightning**

* * *

Mike will never be able to understand the whole burden of "casual dinner parties"—the "casual" makes no difference, and yes, he may have kicked his old habits (namely, breaking in and out of houses, stealing tents, and pottery bowls, while being stupid enough to get himself into almost life-threatening situations), but it doesn't mean he's ready to grow up.

He doesn't even remember how he got invited to this one in the first place. He's a year into _Wake Forest_ , and he's pretty sure he hasn't mingled with the "wrong sort", but now, apparently, it means he's having to attend his best mate's sister's boyfriend's new promotion celebration. He doesn't judge the guy, of course, and he's happy as hell he's being upgraded, but Mike just has a bad history with "casual dinner parties", and he's pretty sure this one will follow along the same fate. Things like that just tend to happen, even when you don't mean them to.

Just like he didn't _mean_ to get arrested that fateful night almost five years ago—he was young, naive, and drowning in his stupidity. But he's out of that phase now, and knows better than to let his sorrows go by picking locks with bobby pins. He's older. He's been through a lot—enough.

A's gone. For good. And although he might not have faced A... Charlotte... like his sister, Mona, and their friends had, it hit him, too. He'd lost a fair amount of people, got back the person he'd probably cared about the most, but still, he lost trust in countless people, and it w as all A's fault. But A's gone now, and everyone is, more or less, safe.

And he _knows_ he shouldn't let his mind wander to _that_ again, because he's meant to be concentrating on not fiddling with his tie, or any other part of his so nicely put-together, _cough_ , casual suit. He's here for his best mate's sister's boyfriend's celebration. Not for letting his mind go walk-abouts.

But Mike's never been one to be _completely_ civil, and lying's not his forte. Setting off to a posse of formalities _scares_ him now, and given his past of anger issues, he doesn't know how long it will take for him to explode in a ballroom of some sorts.

"...Dude. Dude."

Mike is interrupted by his best mate (yes, he has a name— _Owen_ ) prodding his shoulder. Mike doesn't remember falling asleep, but perhaps he did—whatever happened, he's awake now.

"Sorry," Mike says sheepishly. "Are we there yet?"

"Yeah, basically," nods Owen. "Good thing Alec's job thingy's in NC."

"Yeah..." Mike yawns. "I feel like I haven't seen Darcie in _ages_. How is she?"

Owen playfully nudges his shoulder. "We've known each other for, like, a year? And if you're looking to hook up with her, then remember that this is _her boyfriend's_ party we're attending."

Mike laughs. "Right, funny guy. Duly noted."

Owen grins. "And she's very well, thank you." He points at his tie. "It's all creased. Did you even _iron_ it?" He laughs hysterically at Mike's expression, scrubbing, straightening it like a beetle's left marks on it. Owen pulls his hand forward, and yanks it down, laughing so hard the cab driver spares a look.

"Mate, this took me fucking ages!" Mike tries to re-tie it. "Oh, fuck it."

"That's the spirit," Owen claps his back.

" _He_ ," Mike points at the bald driver. "hates you now."

" _Ahem_ , and you," Owen laughs again. "I'm not the one who goes, _Mona, Mona, I love you_ , in my sleep. Who's the _Mona_ , anyway? Is that even a name? Or some demented... I don't even want to know."

Mike looks horrified—he _hadn't_ , had he? Man, and he thought he was completely over her, and he _is_. He knows so.

"Your expression," Owen grins. "Don't worry, you weren't sleep-talking. At least, I don't _think_ so..." Mike kicks his shin. " _Ow_! And anyways, you _were_ chanting her name like some mantra a couple o' weeks ago, so it's not a _complete_ lie." He lowers his voice. " _Mona_. _Oh, Mona_. _Don't leave me_!" He changes his tone. " _NEVER_!" He bursts into laughter, as Mike finally keeps his tie in place.

"Kids," the driver growls. "We're here. Now get out."

So Mike and Owen do just that, not sure if they're ready to be violated by the essence of tuxedos, and boringness.

(Sometimes—just _sometimes_ —Fate creeps up from beside you, and almost as a blessing, takes you away to tour the world. You visit Milan, and then Vancouver, and then you fly down to Queensland, and stop at Dover, and see the wonders of Egypt, and Peru, and that's when Fate beckons you to _stop_ , and _wake up_.)

Maybe if Mike hadn't been so eager to get out his stupid dorm to attend this even more stupid "casual dinner party", and maybe if he was just a little more engrossed in his thoughts, and _maybe_ if he'd been dreaming about Mona a little longer, her light, light kisses with her oh so familiar lips trailing down his cheekbones (in a rough sense, yet not quite), then he wouldn't have had to bump into—

* * *

Mona still has nightmares—she _tries_ not to think about the one-time-too-many death threats she'd received throughout her teenage years (in which she'd planned most of them), or the endless game of chess (in which she'd been the queen for a few rounds) they'd been playing, or most recently, _the dollhouse_ (in which it had been all her fault—her, and her stupid mind games). She tries not to have nightmares, she really does, but her mind doesn't ever listen to her, and she's always free falling back them, and no therapy can ever stop that.

Mona's always wanted to be perfect. It never really worked—her flaws always showed out more than any other part of her, and the insecurities, the doubts, they tainted her face, and made everything so _fake fake fake_. She doesn't want to blame it on anyone, because she'll just be owning up to her own mistakes, and who would want to do that? _It's your own fault you're slowly killing yourself_. It's a little like smoking, but with lies.

She used to comment on everything—her, and Hanna, they used to play this game. They'd comment on some elderly's, or slut's boobs, compare them to others, and conclude with them either being fake, or not. They'd done that to Aria once, just before she came back—they'd had a laugh, before Hanna grimaced, and evaded the subject. And of course, when she came back from Finland, or something, Hanna scurried back to the raven-haired five-foot-three non-fake beauty (and also to Spencer, who'd had enough problems of her own, and Emily, who had _fake_ scrawled upon her face), so she was more Loser Mona than she'd ever been.

So that's how her story goes. She gets ignored, and then she finds a friend (of some sorts), and then she gets ignored again. Nothing shifts, until at the _almost_ end. Prince Charming whisks her off her feet, and then everything starts to go downhill.

Mona thinks her dress is too tight on her upper body, and she thinks it flows way too much waist down. The purple is just not the right shade (it never is), and she looks like a slim-ified plum. Or a grape. The black ribbon tied around her is a shade too dark, and boring, and the ribbon's all creased, and because it's black, _it's so visible_ , and the black v-neck outlining looks disgusting— _disgusting_! And her _shoes_ — _her shoes_! It resembles a nine-year-old's disco shoes, and the sparkles are too sparkly, and it's a hundred shades _not Mona_ , and does she even have to _start_ on her—

"Mona," her roommate, Clarice, starts, rolling her eyes, as Mona examines her whole self in the reflection. (She's been doing that a lot lately—since the dollhouse, and Charlotte-not-CeCe, nothing's really been the same.) "Mona, even your name is an anagram of _moan_." Mona doesn't even so move an inch. "Please don't live up to that stereotype—we both know how much you—"

"One of the simple facets of a young female adult's life," starts Mona, as she starts to smoothe down her dress (her whole body, more like, full of unclean _lies_ , and _secrets_ , and memories that haunt her like prey to a predator). "is finding her flaws. How do you think they manage to find a job? Gender inequality goes as ever, Clarice."

"Mona," Clarice snorts. "This is just my cousin— _your sort-of_ _colleague_ —and his stupid dinner party. There's nothing you need to worry about. You could wear a sack, and he'd still welcome you in with open arms. He _loves_ you."

"Yes, but I _need_ this job," Mona says. "You can't become a lobbyist overnight."

"Eugh," Clarice groans. "I ban you from saying that word—ever! It's like _Macbeth_ , but more dooming. It's taken over your whole life, Mone. Like, three years ago, you were actually _human_ , and then you went at met the dark wonder of avocados."

Maybe in another world, Mona would have laughed at this, but she shakes her head, and picks up her handbag. "Advocacy groups," she corrects. "And it's not just meetings—it's a government-decided job, and it's _important_."

Clarice rolls her eyes. "Sometimes, you know, I wonder if your just an automated computer behind flesh and bone. We're twenty one— _finally_ legally allowed to drink—and you shouldn't be off doing stuff with avo—advo—whatever. That's why I chose a simple life. I get into _Duke_. I party. I meat guys. And then I focus on my life. Maybe psychology. Maths?"

"Maybe I have high ambitions," says Mona. "Come on, Clar, we'll miss our ride."

"Hey, _I'm_ supposed to be more excited than you," Clarice calls out, as they bustle out of the room, and into the cab waiting for them. "Remember? _Mona_ , stop running!" Mona picks up the pace—she doesn't laugh, or smile, or even remotely moves her lips (unless it's re-taking the proud, straight line). She hasn't done that, not for a while.

"Where's Alec's thing again?" asks Mona, once Clarice has finally caught up with her. They slide into the backseat, Mona now checking her eye makeup through her small (may she add, _cracked_ ) mirror. Bad luck just lives with her, apparently.

"Not far," Clarice says. "It's in North Carolina, so really not that far."

The car starts, and a good twenty minutes go with words unsaid—it's pretty shitty weather outside, and the traffic seems to go on, and on, and on.

Mona rolls her eyes, and checks her phone. _19:42_. "We're running late."

Clarice sighs, and blows a piece of her ash-blonde hair out of her face. "Figures."

(And there is that saying, somewhere in the deep depths of dictionaries, and encyclopaedias, thrown brutally aside from the busy affairs of simplistic _nothingness_ , that Fate has everything under its fingertips. Fire, rain, whichever—it makes people dance, and die, and desire, and _disappear_. It brings people together, and tears them apart. It's magic, and then it's not.)

Maybe if Mona hadn't been so busy trying to rid the blood spots of imperfections from her hands, and maybe if she hadn't had the nerve to defend herself, then they wouldn't have been stuck in this rush-hour, with the rain pouring mindlessly, _pitter platter_ -ing upon the windows, and maybe—just _maybe_ —Mona wouldn't have had the need to bump into—

* * *

Mike already feels like he's about to explode—he's two footsteps into the dining area, in this _mansion_ , and he's creeped out by the number of strangers who's squeezed his cheeks, and ruffled his hair. He's not used to this. He doesn't like it.

(But it's normal, right?)

"If it isn't my annoying litle _Wenny_ ," a voice of a girl he barely hears awakes him from his wanderings, and Mike looks up to see Darcie, with her chestnut-coloured hair in a sheet of silvery glossiness surrounding her pretty little face—she comes up to the two of them, gives Owen a brief hug, and turns to look at Mike. "I haven't seen you in a while—how are you, Michaelangelo?"

Mike doesn't know if she's being cynical or not, and plasters a grin on his face, nodding slowly. "Great, thanks. And you?"

"Good," she nods. "I'd better go back to Alec. See you later, then?"

(Most definitely; most unfortunately.)

When she's out of sight, Mike turns to Owen, who's already got his eye caught on one of the curvy red-heads by the chocolate fondue. He knows what kind of guy Owen is, and respects that he's not one to be ties down, but he knows enough from Mona's little handbook of feminism, that eyeing their breasts in such a manner is not exactly customary, or welcoming, and it most certainly doesn't score you a date. Mike recalls once, when Owen asked him why he wasn't "trying for a girl, what with a face like yours", and Mike recalls once, replying with an, "I've been through a break-up too many." And that was the end of that. Owen wasn't the insensitive guy; Mike wasn't the curious one, and so they left it like that.

Minutes pass. People walk past him. He ignores everything. It's easy.

Owen ditches him at one point. Evidently.

More minutes pass.

People walk past him.

He ignores everything.

And at some point, he excuses himself, apologises to the air, and walks down one of the corridors—this place is puzzling, and way too complex for his liking. His old house was as simplistic as it could be, small, comfy, and he knew which rooms were which. That's his sort of fear, he guesses—having too much money.

He sees Alec and Darcie by one of the doors, and desperately tries to walk away, because he knows that Darcie doesn't like him much, and Alec resembles a paedophile. He can hear the words "late", and "Chris and her friend".

He ignores everything.

The doors open at some point, and two girls run in—one with ash-blonde hair, and a white maxi dress; the other in a purple one, with long black hair, and a height that _so very_ reminds him of—

 _Stop it, Mike. Fucking_ stop _it. She's probably miles from here, in her Jaguar, with this new rich beau, completely forgetting about_ that old good-for-nothing relationship in reckless high school. _And she'll be a lobbyist, because that's all she's ever fucking wanted._

More minutes pass.

He has half a mind to leave.

But he doesn't, because he's always been "smart".

More minutes pass (by now, he's convinced they're hours).

Mike walks to one of the exits, and realises that it's still raining. The patio is scattered with hail stones, but what the hell?, he sits on the dry patch of the bench. The decking is covered with a canopy of some sorts, and he's surrounded with gargoyles, and Medusas. He considers smoking, but realises he's got neither a lighter, or a pack, and so he just stares into the distance, as the rain splatters onto the hills in the far-off distance. His mind is muddling, and he knows this is a sign of falling asleep, but he watches anyway, and the rain carries on its dance.

"...Hey, I _do_... I just have a lot on my mind, okay? I didn't mean to... _what_? Are you _that_ angry with me?"

Mike hears a voice, but doesn't look up.

"Clar... No, don't hang up on me! I swear I didn't mean anything to happen..."

The voice is of something he recognises—enigmatic, obscure when it has to be, but then desperate, and longing when things go wrong. He doesn't know how he picks up so much on a mere conversation on a phone (and some words are fuzzy, anyway), but for some reason, he does. And she'll probably end with a riddle, and apologise a few times, before walking off to forget it ever happened.

" _Fine_! But you should know, Clarice... the more you—" She seems to be cut off, and she groans, and taps her feet on the ground impatiently. " _Fuck_ this. Now I don't... _shit_."

Mike looks up, finally, but not completely to see her face.

The girl seems to acknowledge his existence, and mutters, "It's not nice to eaves—"

She stops. He stops. They stop together.

She looks up. He looks up. Their eyes lock.

She seems to be genuinely surprised, but (being the girl he knows she is) she hides it with a sheepish smile, and says, "Mr Mike. Fancy seeing you here." She pauses. "In a suit." Then, she lets the surprise overtake her, and indignantly asks, 'What are you doing here?"

Mike shrugs. "Could ask the same to you." This is not how he wants their first meeting after three years of no contact to start like this, but it's not up to them, or the stars.

"Mike..." Her voice trails off. "I... go to—"

"That's right," he interrupts. " _Duke_ , right? We're in the same state."

"Oh?" she says, more like a question, than one of a statement.

" _Wake Forest_ ," Mike answers, and tries to hid the bitterness, but it pours through each word. "And I love the fact that you didn't know that, almost as much as I love the fact that—"

She cuts him off. It's almost like the last time.

* * *

 **a/n:** i know it's a little cliché, this whole chapter, but should i continue?


End file.
